


Steroids

by Lue4028



Series: The Most Dangerous Chemical [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, BAMF John, Damsels in Distress, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Other, Romance, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:12:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lue4028/pseuds/Lue4028
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve been giving me steroids!” John exclaims hysterically.</p><p>“You make it sound like a bad thing—“</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steroids

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and John are currently living together in a single bedroom/bed apartment (not by choice but due to complications) and have adjusted to sharing the bed (platonicly)

“You’ve been giving me steroids!” John exclaims hysterically.

“You make it sound like its a bad thing—“

“Sherlock, I could have gotten kicked off the team.”

“Not unless they’ve figured out how to detect the biosynetheic version of mercasermin _and_ distinguish it from the naturally occurring one, which, if they have, is even more interesting than experimenting with steroids in the first place,” Sherlock smiles, his eyes alight with intrigue.

John places two fingers on the bridge of his nose and sighs emphatically.

\--

UCL locker room is deserted with the exclusion of one raven-haired teen standing next to an apparently tampered-with locker cabinet. He is slinking the powder stealthily into John’s water bottle, concentrating on administering the correct dosage, when a hand catches his wrist. Sherlock looks up to find the team captain, along with a few other jersey-clad members of the football team, glaring at him. Sherlock meets his eyes, unafraid, overconfident, and, for all purposes, pleased to make their acquaintance.

“Hi…” Sherlock looks the captain up and down, then places him with the name “Lowen. You’re out early.”

“What you got there, nerd?” Forward runner number 8 demands, eyeing the powder contents of the vial.

“Vitamin Z.”

“You mean C,” the forerunner corrects him.

“Yeah, that.”

“Well. Hand it over,” Lowen extends his hand and recoils digits twice, gesturing for him to surrender the vial.

Sherlock’s gaze darts askance to the vial that his holding casually in one hand. “Oh, this? No can do. Fresh out I’m afraid,” Sherlock offers him an angelically apologetic smile. He gives it a shake and lowers it out of eyesight, behind him.

“What is this?” A middle-fielder scoffs, and steps toward him with intent to do some arm-twisting.

“Hold on. I don’t think hammering it out of him will work,” Lowen tells him, raising a hand to intercede his line of pursuit.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at Lowen with a smirk, impressed with the deduction but derisively so, like he was expecting idiocy rather than astuteness.

“You think I’m stupid don’t you, Holmes?” Lowen asks him, grabbing him by his fringe and leaning down to meet him eye to eye. Sherlock returns his intimidating, nonchalant gaze with a set of patronizing, unfazed eyes that are so at ease they are practically flirtatious. “But I know about your little crush on Watson,” He smirks, and Sherlock’s smile fades.

 

“And Watson’s _straight_ ,” Lowen shakes his head with a shuddery, rueful laugh, stepping back, “He obviously doesn’t know. I wonder what he would think if he knew his best friend actually had a thing for him.”

 

Sherlock looks at him with a set of surprised, uncomprehending eyes. Gradually, they redirect and settle on the floor. He’s pensive, suddenly gone quiet.

 

“Maybe you should hand over the Vitamin Z. Everything you’ve got. And keep it coming, Holmes,” Lowen tells him snidely.

 

Sherlock looks down at the sample hesitantly. He hasn’t had the opportunity to run it through spectroscopy.

 

“No? Should we let John in on our secret, then?” Lowen counters with averting his eyes upward with posed pensiveness.

 

“Sure. Go ahead. I don’t… mind,” Sherlock replies airheadedly. There is an apparent level of distraction in his eyes. He's preoccupied- like something’s tangled in the machinery of his mind and preventing him from acting, so instead, he stands idly by, inoperational.

 

And then John walks into the facility, through the entrance approximately thirty yards away. Sherlock’s looks up and his eyes come into focus again when he sees him.

 

Lowen grins and turns around toward John, “Hey Watson! Over here!”

 

Panic dawns on Sherlock, chaos scattering through his eyes.

 

“No— you can’t—“ Sherlock starts. He lunges for Lowen, driving him into the floor.

 

The ensuing battle involves a 17-year-old malnourished kid against at 21-year-old, heavily built athlete. Naturally, it doesn’t go very well. John encounters them sprawled out on the floor and grimaces.

 

“Listen— whatever he’s done, I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it,” he sighs in exasperation.

 

“He hasn’t _done_ anything. He started it because he doesn’t want you to know that—“

 

…and Sherlock tackles Lowen again, making sure to target his ankle sprain injury.

 

“What the hell!” Lowen growls, kicking him in the gut and propelling him backwards. Two of the team members pull Sherlock off, gripping him by the upper arms. Lowen stands, staggering slightly on the ankle, and saunters toward Sherlock, detained and kneeling, with a merciless glare.

 

“You little shit,” he hisses, landing a particularly malicious kick to his ribs. Sherlock gasps.

 

“That’s enough—” John hisses, but mob of his teammates force him back. This rattles John- he really doesn’t like anyone getting between him and Sherlock.

 

“He doesn’t want you to know that he’s been harping on you, Watson,” Lowen says finally with a smrik, hands on his hips, “He’s got a pet crush on you.”

 

Sherlock stares at the ground, breathing halted, pupils dilated. He paralyzed with mortification and Lowen is relishing it.

 

“Sick, huh?”

 

“No,” John replies simply, looking at Sherlock downcast head with a pained sort of tenderness.

 

Lowen laughs. “He probably fantasizes about to sucking you off, Watson. You can’t tell me that’s not gross.” John flinches slightly.

 

“Now, I want those steroids, Sherlock. Surely, a smart bloke like you, understands that much, right?” Lowen tells Sherlock sweetly. John’s head immediately swivels to Lowen in appall, and then incrementally increasing rage.

 

“Sorry, I’ve always been a bit a slow learner. You might have to clarify that,” Sherlock replies lamely, and Lowen’s eyes narrow darkly.

 

“Lowen, don’t—” John begins but Lowen jabs his cleat into his ribcage instantly. John loses his temper and forces his way through the blockade of team members, which quickly turns hostile.

 

Sherlock is breathing conservatively, pain radiating from his midsection. “Oh, okay,” he mutters between breaths, “I think I get it now. You, want to take substances manufactured by me, a chemist who might just want to kill you,” he laughs softly, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

 

With a flash of rage Lowen launches a kick to his solar plexus so hard he parts from the grasp of his captors and falls backward into the lockers. “I was trying to avoid this but if I have to drill it into your thick skull, I will,” Lowen hisses, walking over to him. Sherlock is lying on his side on the floor, gaping and unable to breathe, having had the wind knocked out of him.

 

John, who has apparently been on the steroid regiment for the larger portion of two months, decimates his teammates and is fastly approaching Lowen. Lowen draws Sherlock up by his collar and hits him across the face, drawing blood. John is kind enough to return the gesture when Lowen turns to him in surprise. Lowen falls to the floor unconscious.

 

John turns to Sherlock and kneels beside him.

 

“John…” he murmurs affectionately, propping himself on his elbows and turning to meet him.

 

“What were you thinking?” John touches a hand to the side of his face.

 

“I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

 

“So badly you started attacking people?”

 

“Well…” Sherlock mutters bashfully, clutching the vial, “That and the catalysts I had to use to make this were _expensive_ and I didn’t want to waste it on a bunch of halfwits.”

 

“I swear Sherlock. One day you’re going to piss off the wrong person and that’ll be the end of it,” John sighs, flummoxed.

\--

John shifts awake at some early twilit hour to discover Sherlock sitting at the bedside, drawn into himself, thinking heavily in darkness and isolation.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Sherlock becomes alert and his gaze flickers to John. He swallows. “Yes, fine.”

 

“Come to bed.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes light up with shock. “John, I don’t know if that’s—“

 

“It’s okay. It’s perfectly fine, Sherlock,” John smiles, reaching for him.

 

“I don’t—“ Sherlock pushes away, suddenly hyper.

 

“Trust me—” John doesn’t withdraw, which is clearly a mistake because Sherlock bolts.

 

“Sherlock— wait!” John catches his wrist and Sherlock halts due to the differential in strength. John realizes that’s not a very fair thing to do.

 

“I’m sorry, I just don’t know what’s wrong. And I wish you wouldn’t act like this around me.” Sherlock swallows and looks at John’s grip. Reluctantly he sits on the edge of the bed again, his back turned.

 

“Why are you running scared, Sherlock? It’s only me,” John asks the slender shape of his back. Sherlock is drilling holes into the carpet with his eyes.

 

“Why are you so nervous?” John asks, putting a hand on his tense shoulder.

 

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock breathes smoothly with a laugh, but his voice is shaky.

 

“Ok. Then can we give it a rest?” John asks, holding Sherlock’s elbow to turn him towards him and regain eye contact.

 

“John, I…”

 

“For god’s sakes, Sherlock. I don’t bite,” John grumbles, pulling him onto the bed by the elbow. Sherlock swivels and tenses with alarm.

 

“John!”

 

The discord eventually lands Sherlock on top of John, his hands face down against his chest. Sherlock looks terrified, like he’s been caught red-handed, and John looks clueless, like he doesn’t know what to make of it. John feels Sherlock’s heart beating frantically. After a moment of tense silence Sherlock asks,

 

“I don’t…I don’t look weird, to you?”

 

“No. Aside from being freaked out, you look the way you’ve always looked,” John informs him.

 

“I thought..”

 

“I thought that—”

_you must know by now._

“Or is it—”

_that you already knew?_

“John, I don’t understand—”

 

“Would you calm down? It’s okay. Everything’s okay,” John presses a hand down against his hair, “Do you think you could try talking in complete sentences?” he suggests.

 

“Um..”

 

“Not that I mind just listening to your voice even if I can’t make sense of it,” John smiles at him besottedly. Sherlock is quietly dumbfounded and can’t think of a response.

 

“Will you lie down already?” John says, shifting him down to the mattress. Sherlock relaxes and abides, resting his head against the linens.

 

“Thank you. For today,” Sherlock mutters reluctantly.

 

“Christ, Sherlock, what was I supposed to do? Let him kick your ribs in?” John asks in bemused annoyance.

 

“You lost your position,” Sherlock contests.

 

“That’s a hell of a lot better than loosing you.”

 

“I’m sorry, anyway.”

 

“God, would you stop? Being nice doesn’t suit you.”

 

“Doesn’t it?” Sherlock asks him, amusedly, searching for a trick in John’s eyes.

 

John returns his little watching game, the eye contact a playground. “Suits you a little too well, actually,” John smiles admittedly.

 

Sherlock seems off-put by the level of intrigue and tenderness John is looking at him with. “You still… like me?” Sherlock asks uncertainly.

 

“Oh my god,” John sighs in exasperation. He tightens his arms around Sherlock in a hug.

 

“John…” Sherlock whines.

 

“Shh. Go to sleep.”


End file.
